The Basra Box
by 1Scarylady
Summary: In the Qun everything is orderly; everyone and everything has its place. Outside... not so much.  Characters: Sten and a chorus of other Qunari. Written as a Secret Santa fic for feckless muse on the People of Thedas community on Dreamwidth. COMPLETE.


The crate being unloaded onto the Par Vollen docks was of moderate size, comparable with its fellows being similarly stacked on the salt-crusted planks, all of which bore the mark of the Zacchi vineyards, renowned for its fine purple grapes and the delicious Antivan red which derived from them.

This crate, however, bore no such mark. Instead was scrawled on the side in a bold and slightly childish hand: TO: STEN, BERESAAD BARRACKS, PAR VOLLEN.

The Qunari woman, wearing the robes and body paint of a senior administrator, did not appear happy about this. She frowned at the crate. At least the captain _thought _she was frowning. It wasn't always easy to be sure.

"_Signora_, is there some problem? Such a small crate in the midst of so many, yes? A gift for a friend, nothing more, which I agreed to deliver to this port in return for a modest fee."

The port overseer raised calm violet eyes to his. "There is insufficient information about the recipient."

The captain clicked his tongue, exasperated. "I told her it would be so. You have more than one barracks at which he could be stationed?"

Mild affront shone in those alien eyes. "That would cause no difficulty. Every officer of the Beresaad is assigned the correct post for their skill and can be located immediately."

"_Bueno_." The Antivan captain was keen to complete his paperwork and obtain a hot meal before seeking his return cargo. "Then I shall leave this affair in your capable hands."

No further comment being vouchsafed, and his papers now in order, he thought nothing further of the matter.

_-oOo-_

The crate represented everything that was wrong about non-Qunari society. Its function was imprecise. Its place in the world was unknown. It was cluttering up her day and more importantly it was cluttering up her dock. This was not permissible. The Antivan wine was swiftly despatched to its correct destination, leaving the offending box squatting alone, its offensively untidy address an irritant that must be dealt with.

_I am of the Mind of the Qun, appointed by the Arigena to ensure the efficient running of this port. I am not irritated by a box_. She took a deep breath to centre herself. _Shok ebasit hissra; maraas shokra. __Struggle is an illusion; there is nothing to struggle against._

Fortified by the wisdom of the Qun, she decided to send the crate to the very largest Beresaad barracks, located in the city of Qunandar. It was addressed to 'STEN', and there was no doubt _at all_ of it being received by one. The only remaining question was regarding the required speed of transportation. Nothing in the Qun was wasted, and if the crate contained food, it would be necessary to ensure that it arrived before it spoiled. It was with this in mind that she obtained a crowbar and prised up a corner of the lid, in order to ascertain the nature of its contents.

Five minutes later, the crate was resealed, and assigned to a wagon train heading to Qunandar. But for one Qunari administrator the world would never be exactly as it had been before.

_-oOo-_

The journey was completed without any further disturbances to Qunari equilibrium. The crate was to go to the Beresaad barracks in Qunandar and nothing beyond this was of any importance. Its foreign-ness, its cryptic address, its unknown contents, none of this was of the slightest interest. It had been assigned a place in the world; the function of the wagon driver was to deliver it to Qunandar and she would do so without question.

Therefore, the next time the crate's presence was met with a wrinkled brow and turned-down mouth was when it was deposited with the gate-keeper of the Beresaad barracks. The function it had been assigned ended here, and it was now his responsibility to assign it a new one. Once again a Qunari frown was bent upon the offending article. Objects, even people, should not require functions assigned to them more than once. It was ridiculous; one's function was inbuilt in the Qun.

"I cannot accept delivery of this… this _basra_." One stubby finger pointed accusingly at the box.

The wagon driver remained unmoved. "I was required to deliver it to the barracks and I have done so. You must now put it to use; the Qun does not allow for wasted resource."

"I do not know who it is intended for." The words came reluctantly; to lack knowledge was to admit shame.

"It is for Sten. See? It is clearly, if carelessly, marked." The infinitesimal curl of the wagon driver's lips would, in any other race, have been a wide and somewhat cheeky grin. "So give it to them."

The grunt returned by the gatekeeper indicated approval of this notion.

_-oOo-_

Cool stone protected them from the muggy heat of the jungle island, wide windows allowed in light and any available breeze, while screens of fine cloth kept out biting insects. The barracks was huge, enfolding three sides of the city and acting as a curtain wall, offering protection to the unarmed crafters, administrators and priests who dwelt within.

Home. There had been a time when he had not believed he would ever see it again; when he did not believe that he deserved to do so. Two years had elapsed since his return to Seheron, and ultimately to Par Vollen, but still he savoured each day as a precious gift.

Increasingly, however, he chafed at his assignment to the city guard of Qunandar. He had hoped to be assigned to accompany the Arishok on his expedition overseas, but the Ariqun had desired otherwise. His knowledge of the _bas_ - that which is not Qun – exceeded that of most of his brothers, and must be extracted by the priests and scholars. The process had taken no more than two months, but the Arishok had not returned and no new assignment had been offered.

_I am Sten of the Beresaad. Wherever I am placed to serve is the correct place to be_. A small sigh was stifled, his shoulders squared. A soldier of the Qunari did not question the wisdom of the Qun.

The banter of his brothers lifted his spirits, their conversation filling the huge dining hall where they took their evening meal. Jests about the food mixed with heated discussions on the relative merits of certain combat moves and speculation on when they may expect the return of the Arishok. With nothing useful to add to the dialogues taking place, Sten kept his attention on his plate, enjoying the spicy-sweet flavours of the meat and vegetable dish. Despite how much time had elapsed, even now the memory of bland Ferelden food was enough to make him shudder.

He was mopping up the last of the sauce with thin, unleavened bread when an unusual noise brought his head up: an unearthly screech that sounded like harpies were invading, but which turned out to be the sound of a large, heavy crate being dragged across the stone floor. Many heads had turned at the discordant tone, and more than a few hands had strayed to sword hilts. The innocuous nature of the delivery settled their minds and hearts and they returned to their food and conversation. Sten did the same; if the crate was in some way his business, then he would be informed.

However, something in the posture of the huddle of kitchen servers clustered around the box, in the way they peered within, in the way they put their heads together to discuss the contents, in the way they looked around the tables, where each _Aad_, each unit, was headed by their Sten… something in this caught Sten's attention. They were uncertain, and uncertainty was alien to the Qun. After a short, tense conference a decision seemed to be reached, and the servitors relaxed accordingly, confident now of their task.

Stacks of small plates were procured, and two servers remained by the box, depositing a small pile of… something… on each plate. The two rows of tables between Sten's own position and the crate, together with the movements of the kitchen staff, obscured most of the actual work. The rest of the servitors began to systematically deliver the plates to each table, putting one in front of every Sten.

And only the Stens.

When a plate was deposited before Sten he looked at it for a moment in speechless astonishment.

"_This-_"

"_I never thought I'd-_"

"_Not_ here-"

He was out of his seat and halfway across the room before any of the thoughts were fully-formed. Startled servitors scrambled out of his path. Out of the corner of his eye he could see some of his brothers turn their heads to mark his passing, while others stared dubiously at the contents of their plate. He paid them no heed, the crate was his goal and he came to a halt beside it, seeing the bold black paint on one side that had been obscured at a distance.

He looked at the two servitors, still holding little stacks of baked goods. He looked inside the box, at the carefully packed piles of sweet crumbly treats.

"These are mine."

At tables all over the room, cautious bites were being taken from _his_ cookies. Soft rumbles of approval began to drift into his hearing.

The servitor, a human from Rivian, looked down at the plate and the cookies he held. "Y-yours?" His nervousness suggested that he had not long been in the Qun, or he would have known that no soldier of the Beresaad would hurt an unarmed civilian brother.

The Qunari woman beside him was bolder, as one would expect. "Then this is yours, too, I think?" She held out a sheaf of thick paper. "It was inside the crate."

Sten took the papers. The top one was a letter in Zevran's flourishing script, utterly unlike Nadia Brosca's unlettered scrawl.

_Our dear friend, I trust this finds you well? Indeed I sincerely hope it finds you at all, as we have no proper address for you. But your Qunari organisation is famed throughout Thedas, no? And, if all else fails, I rely upon the delicious scent of double-baked Antivan biscotti to draw you inexorably to our little parcel of goodies. I then have no doubt of your ability to fend off all other comers – I have never yet seen you let a cookie get away!_

Sten snorted, his fingers unconsciously tightening on the letter as all around him His Cookies were being consumed by Other Sten.

_It is our hope that you shall receive our gift in time for Satinalia, the Winter feast. But if it goes astray then there is no need to panic. The double-baked biscotti will stay delicious for many months, and even if the worst should befall and you receive stale cookies, we think you shall find the notes enclosed with this letter to be the finest gift of all._

_Stay well, amico mio. We hope that our gift brings you much pleasure, and that your life offers you much more._

_Zevran &_ NADIA

There was a blot after the painstakingly inscribed name. Memory disgorged an image: the Warden's untidy black mop bent over her letters, her lip caught between her teeth with concentration, blue eyes fixed on the unruly symbols, ink on her fingers and smudged on the end of her nose. Dusters did not learn to read or write, and teaching her had been a laborious task for Wynne during the year or more than they all travelled together. A wave of unexpected nostalgia swamped Sten for a moment, and in order to compose himself, he hastily shuffled the letter to the back of the pile, where he could no longer see the name of his Kadan, inked as crude and blocky as the tattoo on her face.

He stared at the page which was thus exposed to him and quickly flicked to the one behind it, and to the one behind that. There were pages and pages of them, all written in a clear unfamiliar hand. It was a treasure trove, a gift beyond price. Sten looked up at the Qunari servitor who still stood, awaiting further instructions in the disposition of his gift. He handed her the sheaf of papers, holding back only the covering letter.

"You will give these to the barracks cooks. They should ensure that the Arigena receives a copy, so that they may be taught to any others who wish to learn them, adding to the knowledge of the Qun."

"I will do so." She cast an eye over the recipes: Ferelden shortbread, Antivan biscotti, Rivaini spice biscuits and more, much more. "Basra food? It has value?"

He inclined his head. "One of the only things of genuine value I found outside Par Vollen. Look around if you do not believe me." Every plate had been cleared, although telltale crumbs lingered at the corner of a number of mouths. Rather contented mouths they appeared to be, too. "I suggest that you ask the cooks to make them every day."

Sten cast a fond eye over the half-filled crate. "You may hand these out to each Aad, not merely the Sten in command. I wish all my brothers to enjoy them."

"_After all, there will be more tomorrow. And the next day. And the next._ "

He couldn't resist taking a few though, just a few.

Just to hold him over until tomorrow.


End file.
